Witchcraft
by NotEnoughTimeOnMyHands
Summary: A little one shot about the first time Daryl and Carol meet in a AU no ZA world.


Witchcraft

The first night she sees Daryl it's her first late shift at Dale's store. Some local boys are pushing it. Testing the new girl. Trying to buy booze when she knows they are too young, when they don't have ID, even fake. Disgruntled, they knock a few things off the shelf; try to pocket some smaller items. They put it back when she calls them on it but they hang around. Good boys trying to be bad. Nothing better to do and nowhere better to be.

Outwardly Carol projects calm, as best she can. But she's sweating. Wondering when they'll leave and whether the trouble will cost her this job that she so desperately needs. It's her second chance. An opportunity to start fresh in this new place. So unknown to her, yet so wanted.

This town she has come to has changed. In the last twenty, no, ten years, it's gone from middle of the road, with more than a few on the wrong side of the tracks, to prosperous. It's become the neighbourhood with the good schools, the right zip code. It's the kind of place where two rough rednecks can apply their skill and build a business. A place where from the ground up means oil changes in your garage and eating what you hunt, to building a shop to your own specifications.

Money. Something Merle and Daryl Dixon never had. Money started trickling in and then they experienced a deluge. It flowed via their hard work and dedication. It poured in when their name became known and people sought their experience. And then it just built. Word of mouth, to Internet chat, to magazine articles, to respected in the business. Quick and, for them, revolutionary. No more shack in the woods. No more struggling in the name of survival.

And yet they work hard. Two brothers, side by side, late nights at the shop. It was in their blood to not take a thing for granted. To work for what they had, to maintain it. Work, work, work. But Merle, he always manages a little play too!

It's 10pm and Daryl finishes up at the shop. Wiping his hands before climbing the stairs to his office to do a more thorough job. Perks of being the boss. Having your own office with its own bathroom. Satisfied he makes a tour of the whole place, locking doors and checking windows before finally setting the alarm and heading outside.

He smokes and he walks to his truck. He's exhausted but satisfied. They had a big order come in, bikes to be customised, paint to be retouched. Merle had agreed to a pretty tight turn around and to give him his due, he had contributed. Finally after this late night, the job was done to Daryl's satisfaction and ahead of schedule. As he finishes his smoke he thinks he deserves a beer. Knowing he doesn't have any left at home, he steps into his truck and heads to get some.

Daryl enters the store, head down. He's too tired for conversation; he wants to get in and get home. A quick glance from under his blanket of hair tells him old man Horvath isn't working. Daryl likes him, he appreciates that he's always treated him and Merle the same way. He didn't think ill of them because they were poor and he's not got stars in his eyes now that things are different. But he's not got the energy or the patience for Dale's gentle, good natured prodding.

The bell above the door, the one that usually signals the arrival of customers sounds but it's drowned out slightly by some rowdy kids. Fucking wannabe punks, each jostling to avoid being in position. They're obviously trying their hipster best to cause trouble. Daryl opens the fridge and grabs his beers. He's set on ignoring them completely; _not my circus, not my monkies_ , he thinks, but then he catches sight of the woman behind the counter. She's speaking to them softly; attempting to discourage their behaviour and hasten their retreat from the store. He likes the sound of her voice, it's lighter than air, sing song lilt. He likes that even in this situation, even when provoked, she's not shouting. Then he sees her eyes, he's sure they'd be beautiful, but all wide eyed as they are, they are captivating. They draw him in and hold him there. The crystal colouring is otherworldly. He is taken. It feels so different and so unfamiliar. Nothing and no one gets to him like this. Yet he feels a rush of anger, knowing the panic she must feel to be looking that way. Before he stops himself, instinct decides that it is his fight.

"Hey Bieber, you and your friends get the fuck outta this store 'fore I give ya'll somethin' to bitch 'bout!" Daryl's sleep thick voice combines with his natural gravel to produce a threat that has the boys briefly look at each other, then hurrying out the door.

Daryl doesn't break stride. He has an expectation that they'll do as he instructs. Even without the warning and the tone, he's Merle Dixon's brother. Dixons know about bikes, they know about women - Merle more than him - and they know how to fight. Christ, he could take on 25 of those little punks, drunk, blindfolded and with one hand tied behind his back.

He swings his arm and drops the beer on the counter, he doesn't make eye contact, afraid of the feeling that overtook him before. He fishes some notes from deep in his jeans pocket and hands it over.

She takes the money, starts to ring up the sale and make change. Then she starts to talk, "thanks... thanks for doing that. I appreciate it. I...".

"Stop," he interrupts, hearing her voice hitch and knowing that inadvertently he's used the same harsh tone with her that he had minutes earlier.

He takes his change, lifts the beer and turns towards the exit. He's tired he thinks, but not a total asshole. And he feels something. Some pull, some mysterious power. As he pulls the door open he lifts his head and mutters a quick, "ya welcome" before making his way back to his truck.

It's nothing really. An insignificant moment. Except it's not nothing. It's the beginning. That tiny moment snowballs as Daryl thinks about that soft voice, her bright, wide eyes. It takes root and grows when he thinks about how she looked and how it felt to be in her presence.

For Carol, too, it registers. He was the balm that soothed her worries, the person who momentarily lightened her load. That hasn't happened to her often. She could count those moments in her life on one hand. And it's strange because that gruff exterior, the hard voice, the sharp instruction, it would normally have her scurrying away faster than those boys he saw off. But it doesn't. Kismet maybe. Or maybe it's more.

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Thank you for reading xx


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